


Disturbing the Dead

by zubateatscakes



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Human Names Used, Love, M/M, Romance, Semi-human, Supernatural Elements, USUK - Freeform, alternative universe, ghost - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 11:02:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3975667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zubateatscakes/pseuds/zubateatscakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who dares disturb the dead? It's Alfred who does. And what will his action bring to him? This is the story of two men — well, a man and a manlike entity — and their minds through bets, teases, thoughts and so forth. Alfred starts to hang out at the graveyard every night as soon as he makes acquaintance with Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disturbing the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

   He climbed over the wrought iron fencing and started walking slowly through the graves of the cemetery, a weak winter breeze blowing against his face.

   It was all Francis' fault if he was there. It was him who said he would never be a hero if he feared so many things. Francis made him bet his horror movie collection that he would sneak in a cemetery at night, find the Frenchman's mobile phone and call him. Actually, he could have refused the bet, but he wanted to be a hero, to prove himself he could be one, no matter what.

   He sighed.

   Since that was quite a big graveyard, Francis had drawn him a treasure map. Alfred launched the flashlight app on his mobile phone and looked at the piece of paper in his right hand.

   After some time, tens of turns and quite a large amount of jumps due to creepy noises, he found the place. There the tombs had at least a hundred years. There was also a mausoleum not far from where it was.

   Looking around in order to make sure nobody was there, he called Francis' phone. As the ringtone reached his ears, he searched for it. Immediately after grabbing it, he sighed in relief, called the Frenchman's house and saved his precious movies.

   He sighed again. It was time to head back home.

   Suddenly, he felt something touching his ankle. He jumped, screaming with fright. Looking down, he found out it was only a cat. He sat on his heels and affectionately scolded the grey fur ball not to be scared again, as if the cat could understand him.

   An angry, frightening voice reached his ears. "How dare thou disturb the dead?"

   A chill went down his spine. Instinctively, Alfred raised his head and found a pair of green eyes staring at him coldly. He could neither speak nor take a step back; the only thing he could do was staring back at those eyes. He was frozen.

   "Now that thou hast to speak, hath the cat got thy tongue?" he spoke roughly.

   In the beginning, Alfred thought he was a ghost, but soon he started telling himself that that guy had to be the custodian. The man took a step towards him. Alfred swallowed and, after mustering up the courage, asked, "Please, don't call the police."

   "Dost thou think I am the custodian?" he laughed coldly.

   Alfred reconsidered his previous supposition. First, that man, which surely was a Brit, judging from his accent, had used some archaic English words; then, the man in front of him wore a light, unfastened green coat and, under that, only a shirt. It was too cold to go for a walk dressed like that! "You're not the custodian, are you?"

   "I'm not him, indeed."

   "So... Are you a ghost?" Alfred asked uncertainly.

   "And now, why should I be a ghost?"

   "Oh. Sorry, man. I thought it because of your light clothes."

   "Actually, I used to wander like this when I was alive."

   "But you said you weren't a ghost!"

   "I only asked why you thought I was so. If you had supposed I wasn't, it should be  _your_  fault, not  _mine_ ," the man spoke. His words were still sharp, but not angry anymore.

   "Oh, wonderful. Not only have I found a ghost, but also a surly one." Accidentally, Alfred thought aloud.

   "I am not the one who made a mess in the cemetery in the first place: y _ou_  did. Perhaps you should think before saying such stupid things.  _Git_ ," he smirked unfriendly.

   "Hey, I'm not a git!" Alfred replied childishly, his fear strangely fading away. Hearing no comments, he asked, "So... Are you a ghost?" Certainly, that wasn't a good move, but he wanted to be sure of it.

   "That's why I call you git," the Englishman answered, referring to the question. This started to annoy Alfred, but he thought he could try again approaching that stranger.

   " _But_   _why should I approach a potential ghost?_ " he asked himself. In the beginning he was scared, but he got curious as things went on. Because of that, he forgot the cold weather and sat down on a bench near an ancient tombstone covered in a thorn plant, which was almost shrivelled up, and in a shrub. Suddenly, he remembered the first time that strange guy had spoken to him. Then he said, "At least you aren't angry anymore."

   "On which basis are you assuming this?" the man asked.

   "Basically," he raised his left forefinger, the other fingers loosely bent against his palm, and closed one eye, grinning. "You're not using archaisms. If I were a ghost, had been alive a lot of years before and were angry, I would naturally use my original language, which could have a lot of archaic words. Besides, your tone of voice isn't angry," he ended his reasoning. He himself was surprised. He usually chose not to read the atmosphere, but that time it was instinctive to do it and to explain his intuition. He hadn't had the time to stop himself.

   Surprised by the answer, and considering what to do, the Brit remained silent for a while. Finally, he spoke, "Yes, you may deem me to be a ghost."

   It was an unnecessary sentence, but he said it anyway, his voice friendlier than before. Alfred thought he had imagined that tone.

   Back then, Alfred didn't know it, but, when he showed himself able to understand him, that man would naturally open a part of himself to him. A small one, but still a part.

   "Why have you died?" Alfred asked curiously.

   "Men are meant to die," the Brit stated, trying to avoid the details.

   "Yes, but you're... um, were young, still in your twenties, I guess, so why have you died?"

   "I was sick," he answered shortly. It was too personal.

   There was a brief silence. Alfred noticed that the ghost had a corporeal body since the lamppost light didn't go through his body, which wasn't common in films and books. He decided to ask it, "If you are a ghost, then why do you have a body just like I do?"

   "Actually, I am a  _living ghost_ : I am neither dead nor alive. I can be invisible or maintain a physical body and act like a human being, but I can't die. If I could, it would mean I was alive. Though, I cannot maintain this form as long as I'd like: it takes me energy to be like this. If I ran out of energy, I wouldn't die, but I'd become invisible for a while to regain my strength again," the man explained quickly.

   As he heard a noise, he noticed that the guy had fallen asleep. A vein pulsing on his forehead, he threatened that childish bloke, "Wake up right now or I will leave you here to die from frostbite."

   Nothing. That  _git_  had started snoring. "Well, good luck and happy death, I'm going away right now, understood?" he threatened him again, his voice rising, and pretended to leave.

   Nothing again. He sighed and got closer to the guy. He could act coldly, but he wasn't a bad person in the depths of his heart.

   He muttered some words; a spell started to keep warm the sleeping boy. At least he wouldn't die because of that bitter cold.

   He silently left, his shape fading away in the darkness of the night.

   Alfred opened his eyes and quickly looked around. He was still in the cemetery. The sun would rise soon. A pair of green eyes crossed his mind, and the memories crowded his head. He thought he had only dreamt it and stood up quickly. He stretched and glanced at his mobile phone. That time he would have headed back home. Definitely.

   He examined his map and soon enough was out of the cemetery.

   " _I took a nap in a cemetery_ ," he thought, hardly keeping himself from laughing. He who was told being afraid of cemeteries had just slept in one. He surely had dreamt a strange guy though. A thin body, and blonde medium-long hair moved by wind, just like an average guy — but those bright green eyes looked as if they could speak. He wondered what was beneath that surly surface, what was that guy's true personality. He didn't think the ghost was a bad one.

   " _At least it wasn't a nightmare, since that living ghost hasn't tried to kill me_ ," he thought.  _Living ghost_. As those two words came out naturally, he remembered the young man calling himself that way because he could be both corporeal and intangible.

   Feeling a cold breeze, he suddenly stopped. He wondered why he hadn't felt it even if he had slept on a bench. It didn't make sense to him since he was sensitive to cold.

   His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by his ringtone. It was Francis who asked him for the phone hidden in the graveyard.

   It had been almost a week since that night. Alfred couldn't stop his mind from thinking about that dream. He couldn't tell anymore whether he had only dreamt it or not. In fact, the ghosts he usually dreamt in no way acted like that or had such features. He had tried to convince himself that maybe he had eaten something bad, but curiosity grew as days passed.

   Alfred made his decision. He would give it a chance: he would go to the cemetery and seek that man out. Actually, he was heading to the cemetery, trying to suppress his fear.

   He eventually reached the bench and spoke aloud, "Hey dude, are you here?"

   Nothing. Using a more formal language, he tried again, "Hey Mister Ghost, are you here?"

   Nothing. He waited for a while and then sighed. He had got all excited for no reason at the possibility of talking with that ghost again, but he had to deduce that he had really only dreamt it.

   "What do you want?" the ghost spoke quickly.

   As Alfred saw the ghost appear out from thin air abruptly, he jumped, screaming in fear. Although he knew the Brit could do it, he wasn't used to this. Few moments later, he suddenly exclaimed childishly, his eyes glowing in amazement, "Whoa, you can do something like this, can you?"

   "You don't know how to change your mood abruptly, indeed," he observed wryly. "What do you want now?" He spat out quickly.

   "Then you really exist!"

   The ghost rolled his eyes. Alfred asked emphatically, "How can you do  _that_?"

   "It's a thing I became accustomed to. Why aren't you afraid of talking with me, a ghost?"

   " _You_  think I'm not, dude. I got really scared the first time, but I don't think you're a bad ghost: you could have harmed me a lot of times — I mean,  _I slept on a bench!_  — but you didn't. Few moments ago, I was scared 'cause I wasn't and am not used to that, but it's somehow amazing, if you don't consider the creepy part. It makes the scientist man in my depths try to understand why it is like that." Alfred was going crazy. He was excited and nervous, childish and a little unsettled. After a brief pause to breath, he continued, "Then, yeah: I'm the hero!"

   "No, you're not."

   "What?!"

   "You're not a hero. You try to convince yourself you are, but you aren't. Your first thought was that  _I_  was something which you can make experiments with. The hero-thing came after, as if you were going to correct yourself."

   "What? I didn't mean it  _that_  way!" he complained childishly, but sincere. Having heard no reply, he added, "Hey, sorry for hurting you earlier, Mister Ghost."

   "Stop calling me like that,  _git_."

   "Then what about telling me your name,  _Mister Ghost_?" he joked.

   "No."

   "Come on, dude! I'm Alfred F. Jones, what about you?" Hearing no answers, he sighed and then tried teasing him, "I didn't think you were  _that_  touchy, dude. Not speaking to me anymore, what a stubborn, hot-heated ghost…"

   "I'm neither hard-headed nor hot-headed, you  _twit_ " he spat out angrily.

   "Then tell me your name, dude," he chuckled playfully.

   The ghost groaned, trapped by his own words, and uttered, "Fine! I'm Arthur."

   Alfred grinned widely. Arthur couldn't help but smile slightly and look away shyly. Alfred got closer to him and stroked his hair since he was used to sharing physical contact openly and had a gut feeling it wouldn't make things worse.

   As Arthur felt the hand on his head, he tried to push the man away, averting his eyes. Alfred was about to take out his hand when he saw the Brit blush slightly. He quickly ruffled his hair. In the beginning Arthur stiffened, but then he relaxed a little.

   " _Then he actually has a tender side and he is not always that stubborn_ ," he thought involuntarily.

   Somehow, Alfred managed to have a talk with him without any other problems.

   He visited the cemetery each night for almost a month, their relationship getting deeper as days passed. Someone could have said that if Arthur had been the fox, Alfred would have been the little prince.

   Then an idea found its way to his mind and gradually stuck into it. Alfred wanted to spend more time with Arthur and to go out with him. When he asked him for this, though, the ghost refused categorically, even though he had no reason not to hang out with him: despite being a ghost, he wasn't tied to a certain place or person. Alfred dropped the matter. He could've expected that reaction since, every time he proposed something new, the Brit rejected it initially but accepted it with the flow of time. Actually, the more he tried to caress Arthur's hair, the less wary the Englishman became.

   Surely Arthur was not only wary and shy, but also very introvert. Alfred sometimes thought that that guy feared expressing himself openly, but then he put this theory aside, telling himself that maybe he wasn't that kind of person who shared physical contact highly — or at least he wasn't used to.

   Alfred would ask him for going out with him again one day. That thing was a little bit exhausting though.

   Arthur looked through the window, his gaze losing its way in the milky sky. He sighed. Since he rejected Alfred's idea two days before, he had been thinking about it. Each time he tried to cast that thought aside, it came back stronger and stronger. He had an inner conflict. A part of him wanted to get rid of those things which were haunting his mind; the other wanted him to find Alfred and go out with him. He sighed again, moving away from the window. He sat down and took a book.

   He resumed reading. Or at least he tried to. Though, after few minutes he sighed for the third time and glanced at his wristwatch. It was centuries-old and pretty worn, but he wasn't going throw it away since it was the last gift his father had presented to him before they both died. He was given it at his twenty-third birthday. He usually ran his right forefinger on the shabby leather while remembering their death. Most of the sorrow had faded away.

   The noon had just passed. They would meet this night. He didn't have to be in a hurry. This was what he had kept telling himself for almost forty hours. The day before Alfred wasn't at the cemetery because he had had to visit his family in America and have dinner with his whole family due to his father's birthday. Surely, Arthur didn't envy him.

   He closed his book and put it on the end table. He couldn't read. He couldn't understand a single word of the ones his eyes were trying to focus on.

   Picked the teacup up, he went to the kitchen to wash it. Although he had died almost two centuries before and he didn't need to, he hadn't stopped doing things living humans did such as eating or washing himself. In his depths he unconsciously wanted to be mortal again, and this pushed him to act in that manner. But that desire was weak and almost gone with the time. Surely routine had helped him maintaining a human style of life, but it hadn't been the main reason yet. It could be one day, but now it wasn't.

   He would go to look for Alfred.

   He wore his coat, keeping it unfastened, and exited from his house. He glanced at the sky and locked the front door. Then, he passed through the walkway.

   Even though they didn't live in a big town, Arthur couldn't find Alfred anywhere. He realized that, although Alfred spoke quite a lot about himself, where he went or what he did, they were still strangers since he couldn't foresee where he would go or what he'd think.

   He pondered over buying one of those  _bloody_  mobile phones. Alfred wouldn't have problems giving him his phone number since he asked him for it in the first place. Arthur shook his head, the idea slipping away.

   He glanced at his watch. The afternoon had ended and the evening was about to be replaced by the night.

   He sighed. He had searched the whole town at least three times, but it had been all to no avail. Heading towards the graveyard, he spotted Alfred's dark-blonde messy hair from afar. He sped up his pace to join him and gently poked his shoulder with his fingers.

   Alfred turned around. At first, seeing who drew his attention, he was surprised, but then he grinned widely, his eyes half-closing. As they were going to meet soon, he asked him why he was there and joined him in such a hurry. Arthur stiffened, swallowed and averted his gaze, a slight blush flashing on his face.

   Alfred felt uneasy. Although he didn't notice the tense atmosphere, his unconscious — which probably had gathered up almost all of the ghost's gestures — did.

   "So you wanna go out with me dude, don't you?" unsure of the other's thoughts, he approached, the idea crossing his mind as intuitions did.

   "We're already out technically," Arthur uttered wryly and awkwardly.

   This time Alfred consciously understood the discomfort and that the Brit confirmed his hypothesis. He teased him a little, "I've got the picture! You can't resist my charm!"

   "Charm? What  _bloody_  charm? I accepted because I've nothing better to do," he said, attempting to use a cold tone of voice to hide his embarrassment. Alfred chuckled for his stinging words even though he was slightly hurt by them. He reflected that perhaps he was right and Arthur feared expressing himself and his feeling openly.

   They headed for a park, Alfred's words streaming ceaselessly and endlessly. He described his father's birthday in excitement with so many details Arthur couldn't memorise anything. The ghost smiled slightly, the discomfort fading away.

   They sat on a bench near a lamppost, a gentle wind weakly swishing through the grass turves and the tree crowns. Arthur felt light and took delight in feeling that cool breeze on his skin. Alfred shivered imperceptibly then stated, "I still don't know how you can stay like this without feeling cold and enjoying it instead."

   Shrugging, the Englishman stated, "I've always been like this. It's quite normal, I guess. Well, at least  _for me_."

   They stayed that way for hours, talking and sometimes looking at the sky.

   The weeks flew away. A routine was slowly settling almost unconsciously. They'd get together where and when they established the previous time. If they didn't, they'd meet at the cemetery at the customary time.

   Arthur slowly began considering him a friend, even though he wouldn't have admitted it.

   The Brit reached the established place and after a moment glanced at his wristwatch. He was early. Alfred should arrive in about ten minutes, and so did he.

   "So you weren't teasing me last night," the American uttered cheerfully. He referred to the dialogue they had had not so many hours ghost had told him he wanted to buy a book since it was quite a long time he didn't go in a bookshop. Taken aback, the young man had asked him, "Didn't ghosts appear alive only by night?!"

   Arthur had explained him that most of the things the man thought about ghosts — especially about those who were like him — weren't true. Surely that bloke had watched too many banal and boring movies about ghosts and horror stuff.

   Alfred opened the doorway quietly and let Arthur in first. Then he entered grinning and shut the door. He followed him and, seeing he could orient himself without remarkable problems, asked, "Did you already know this store?"

   Arthur nodded and whispered, "I haven't been here for quite a while. It seems almost nothing has changed, though."

   "So you're into detective stories, are you?" he voiced his reflection. Arthur looked at him and nodded; then he resumed scanning the book titles. Pointing one of Doyle's novels, the American asked, "How about that?"

   "I read it when it was published," he revealed.

   "Whoa," the man exclaimed, "you're kinda old, dude!"

   "I'm not old," he whispered sharply, purposely ignoring that the other was right, and then added, "and lower your voice,  _git_."

   Alfred did as he commanded, not without complaining, and teased him slightly, "But you sure are old, man!"

   "Stop it."

   "But now I'm curious," he moaned like a child, "how old are you?"

   "Cut it out right now," the Brit replied, getting a little annoyed.

   "Okay, okay. I got it, geez," he grumbled. Inwardly, he considered their talk quite fun and pretty amusing.

   They chatted like this for quite a while, one observing the other bent on the books. Eventually, Arthur found something interesting. Straightening his spine, he took a novel from a shelf in the Bildungsroman section and inspected the inside front cover. He flipped the pages and uttered, "This one". He looked at Alfred and asked him, "Has anything caught your eye?"

   The American lifted up the children's novel he picked up earlier. The ghost raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. He could have expected it since his friend was really a fan of children's stuff, but he didn't think he was keen on reading.

   They took the books they chose to the counter. The cashier was quite old, perhaps in his late seventies. Wrinkles shaping his face, the man smiled and observed the two customers. After they paid, the old man addressed the ghost, "You remind me of a customer who used to purchase a lot of books here a long time ago. You look exactly like him."

   Arthur seemed uneasy and limited himself to smile forcedly. Shortly after that, the cashier stated, "But, of course, you can't be him. I was talking of things happened almost sixty years ago," and added, "Thank you for your purchase."

   Few minutes later, they were walking around. Alfred teased him, "Man, you sure frequent bookshop often. I mean, sixty years!"

   " _Git_ ," he uttered quickly. He paused and resumed, "Stop it. You know your sentence has logical issues. You only find it funny to annoy people."

   "It's not true!" he moaned. Then, he stated, grinning widely, "I find it funny to annoy  _you_."

   Hiding a shy, amused smile, Arthur nudged him.

   A thought began growing unconsciously. Alfred one day would die, and rarely the dead became ghosts. Even though he knew it rationally and from experience, he didn't realise it back then.

   The desire of being a mortal again became less weak.

   The months passed and they kept on hanging out. Their routine strengthened. Arthur consciously thought of Alfred as a friend indeed.

   The Englishman was in the cemetery. Alfred was late.  _Bloody_  late. An hour had passed. He waited. Another hour was about to end. Still nothing. And so forth. After some couples of hours, he hinted the American wouldn't come.

   He sighed, his head crowded with all the possible reasons why he wasn't here. It was unusual. The American had never stood him up. When he couldn't meet him, he always notified him of it earlier. Arthur hadn't bought a mobile phone yet, so it was obvious Alfred did so.

   A thought flashed his mind. His friend may have had a hitch. Few moments later, another idea popped up, " _Perhaps he has died._ " He shook his head, putting aside these thoughts. His mind was still working on them unconsciously, though. He told himself Alfred would come the next day.

   The same scene happened the day after. This time Arthur considered the hypothesis of Alfred's death for a moment but soon began reasoning anxiously, " _No, no, he can't…_ I _can't think it is that bloody way. I have no proof. It may… It might be so, but I have no proof. I'm only fussing over this. Tomorrow he'll probably be here. Probably… Oh, cut it out right now, Arthur!_ "

   Despite his efforts, it didn't seem it was working well. Actually, the more he was trying to think logically, the more it did seem he was doing nothing but trying to convince himself. He slowly headed back home, his pessimistic side spawning any sort of negative thoughts, from Alfred's death to Alfred ignoring him for no reason. Still, he didn't give up on attempting to get rid of them. He felt weak. How could he act like this because the American hadn't come? He started over-thinking incorrectly…  _Well, almost panicking_! He was apprehensive indeed — especially with those he called true friends.

   The third day he searched all other the town several time before heading for the cemetery. He hadn't found him yet, nor did Alfred show up that night.

   He found his answer eventually. Or at least the answer he wanted to ear. The answer which would make him stop being so  _weak_. Alfred was ignoring him. That  _bloody_  mortal had studied him because he was fascinated by him, a ghost. He turned his back on him as soon as he didn't have anything more to learn from him. The sooner Arthur accepted it, the better it would be. He had been so stupid, he would have said. He could've predicted it and listened to his gut feelings and logical mind instead of giving that  _bloody_  bloke a second chance. He could've let him die back then, when he fell asleep on that  _bloody_  bench. Why did he have to be such a weak youth?

   " _What was in thy bloody mind? Art thou mindless?_ " was his final thought. He was getting angry at himself.

   Arthur — in all his oldness and experience — had never realised consciously that he and his heart as well were crumbly.  _Just a little_.

   His displayed obstinate cold-heartedness and his self-deprecation were his shield. Actually, it was him who thought so. And he believed it was so because he was afraid of getting hurt because inwardly he thought he was weak, but this would only make him get hurt.

   As the days and the nights changed, Arthur's heart became shut. The sorrow was growing inside of his heart. He didn't stop going to the cemetery every time the sun set and waiting for Alfred. Somewhere in his depths he still hoped to be wrong.

   He couldn't help but think bitterly how painful doing nothing was even though he was used to that before their first encounter.

   It took nearly two weeks for Alfred to show up again. When he arrived, he didn't see Arthur, but he didn't frown since the ghost could have been in his invisible form. He called him, apologizing for not telling him he wouldn't hang out with him for a long time and saying he hadn't been able to warn him about it, but nothing happened. Arthur kept himself from answering even though a part of him would have wanted to. Alfred tried again, but still nothing. He waited for a few minutes; then he tried for the third time. Nothing again. It went on in this way for quite a while. He left eventually.

   The same happened the following days. The young man didn't stop coming to call him. In his depths, the ghost would've wanted to reveal himself, but fear and pride were hindering him.

   One day, a week or so later, Alfred showed up holding a book in his hands. He called Arthur's name. Nothing. He waited for a while then asked again for him. Alfred sighed. He had realised that his friend was probably there and just ignoring him.

   He sighed again and set the book down on the bench on which they usually talked — the bench on which he had slept months before when they first met. After a while, he spoke aloud, "Listen, dude: I dunno what you've been thinking about my sudden disappearance. Maybe you want to understand and to be understood as well. Everyone wants this 'cause comprehension is the key to harmony, so I can bet it. But if you don't even try to explain yourself — nor do you show yourself — it's hard it'll be so. So, please, show up and let's patch things up, shall we?" His voice sometimes seemed uncertain.

   It took him a considerable amount of courage to open himself that much. Therefore, he hoped it hadn't been worthless. He waited for a while. Then he sighed and turned.

   Arthur froze because of those words, all the feelings he rejected coming back as though his desperate tries to completely shut his heart hadn't been in the beginning. Nevertheless, the feelings he had had in those weeks hadn't faded away yet. The seconds turned into minutes. Then he heard Alfred's sigh and his actions.

   "What do you want?" he said inexpressively, his fear and his negative feeling still crowding his heart. This time hope would've helped though.

   Eyes widening for the surprise, a smile lightening his face, Alfred turned towards Arthur. He got closer to the Brit and hugged him tightly. The ghost stiffened, not used to that and still not at ease. Besides, they had to clarify things and patch it up.

   "Let go of me,  _git_ ," he uttered coldly.

   Alfred didn't. He did hold him more tightly than before, instead. That was his way to show how fond he was of him, and the ghost knew it. Still, Arthur didn't hug him back. But a soft and tender " _git"_  escaped his mouth.

   Nobody could tell how long they stayed that way. Alfred's embrace ended eventually and he began explaining himself, "Um… You remember I have a brother, Matthew, do you? He and my dad have had a car accident, and I've had to head back to United States for… well, you know: I came here as soon as I could." He stopped, seeing the frown on the Brit's face, and added not to make him worry about it, "But now they're fine. My mum is still frightened, but everything is gonna be okay."

   The silence fell between them. Suddenly, Arthur spoke, "You could have told me earlier."

   "I prefer to talk to you when being able to look at you than not."

   When the American was about to head back home, already showing his back to him, the ghost stated, "You've forgotten your book."

   Alfred raised a hand, waving at him, and uttered, "It's I don't want it; get your  _bloody_ ass back here and pick it up," he said coldly.

   "Well, I won't. Feel free to pick it up, if you change your mind," slightly hurt by his words, he informed his friend.

   Soon Alfred disappeared in the darkness of the night. Arthur got closer to the book and read its title,  _Le Petit Prince_. He had already read it, but his hands couldn't help but approach to the front cover and caress it gently, his finger barely touching it. He grabbed the volume eventually.

   Arthur had already read it. He remembered it. Still, he couldn't help but read it over and over again all through the night.

   When the dawn approached, the ghost looked up from the book and closed it, bringing it to his chest, his eyes losing in the sunrise.

   He opened his eyes — strange as it may have seemed, he didn't remember he had closed them. He glanced at his watch: it was noon. Maybe he had fallen asleep. He may have dreamt about the time in which Alfred asked him his name —  _may_  because he was unsure about it: images of that memory had only popped up as soon as his eyes fluttered open.

   " _Alfred still doesn't know my last name_." This was what he realised eventually. It wasn't that strange since he had never had to use it when his friend was with him and the American hadn't asked him for it since that day.

   He took a shower, his thoughts never leaving him alone.

   A new idea popped up in his mind. He dealt with the control knob, the water spray losing its power until it stopped. He took a towel and dried himself.

   When he got back to the living room, he stared at the book Alfred had given him. Something in his depths pushed him in order to have him find an appropriate place for it. He shook his head to get rid of that desire and turned. A blink of eyes later he turned again towards the book, the same feeling pushing inside. He shook his head again. He felt uneasy. He couldn't accept that that gift was so important, that he was fond of Alfred in a strong and deep manner. He couldn't even realise it. But his true being had already done it and was desperately trying to point this out and make him deal with it.

   Arthur didn't understand. Nonetheless, he picked up the book and placed it in a bookshelf of his, next to his favourite novel. He wouldn't have confessed it to anybody. Well, that was what he thought, but life is a long path to walk and future isn't always what we've thought it would be.

   The sound of steps ended near  _their_  bench. Alfred looked up from the ground and noticed that  _that_  book, the book Arthur rejected the day before, wasn't there.

   A small smile lightening his face, he called his name out loud. Surprisingly, a voice somewhere behind him replied. He flinched slightly: he was used to seeing the ghost come out from thin air and now Arthur decided to walk like living-humans did. What was that? Well, probably he had to come to the cemetery somehow, if they met, unless he could materialise wherever he wanted, but that was not like…  _Arthur_. Then again, what did he know of him? His friend listened more than he spoke. Most of the things Alfred knew of him had been found out because they hung out a lot. Indeed, he didn't know that much of Arthur's past.

   Considering him a living-human made him feel strange, pleasantly strange. It wasn't that he thought of him as a ghost all the time they met or that he believed he was an experiment: he simply hadn't cared about it. And he didn't and wouldn't, he would've said. But that wasn't the complete truth. Deep inside, Alfred would've felt happier: if Arthur had been a mortal…  _Then what?_  He himself didn't know the answer.

   Alfred noticed that his friend was holding a small carrier bag.

   "Hi," the Brit greeted uncertainly.

   "Hey dude," Alfred greeted back and stated, "At the end you've changed your mind. Regarding the book, I mean."

   "No. I've taken it only because I don't want it to be marred. It could have rained and you dropped it on a bench in a cemetery on a winter night,  _git_ ," he lied, trying to seem cold but blushing faintly. He avoided his gaze and put a hand on the back of his neck, his fingers pressed in the skin.

   An awkward silence fell, the atmosphere getting heavier.

   He gave him the bag eventually. It contained a pair of black gardening gloves and scissors. " _They seem new so he has probably bought them recently, maybe today. If so, that's why he wasn't there before me_ ," he reasoned quickly.

   Alfred looked at him quizzically, but Arthur only pointed the tombstone covered in a thorn plant and a shrub. Alfred still didn't understand and asked him why he didn't do it by himself.

   "Cut it out and do it right now," he ordered awkwardly, turning away his head not to meet his eyes. Alfred sighed and did as he was asked to. The reason why Arthur avoided his gaze was still a mystery. He would ask it, but he feared the ghost would become excessively withdrawn all of a sudden.

   After a while, he held the last branch of the thorn plant which covered the name engraved on the stone.  _Arthur Kirkland_. According to the date of birth and the death one, he was from the first half of nineteenth century.

_Arthur_. He looked up and noticed that his friend felt uneasy. He understood: that was his tomb. He teased him childishly, "Man, you are a  _very_  old and decrepit and…  _old_  man!"

   A vein throbbed on Arthur's head, but he couldn't vent anything. Alfred had just grinned widely and hugged him. A warm feeling growing inside, the American thanked his friend who said awkwardly, "There's nothing to be so happy about."

   "That's not true, dude. It means much to me," he whispered gently.

   "You're exaggerating. My remains aren't here, anyway," he explained.

   "What?"

   "Actually, my remains don't exist at all," he clarified. Seeing the quizzical look on Alfred's face, he narrated, "When I was twenty-three years old, I got sick. My father wanted to heal me, but, since the cure didn't exist, he studied to create a spell and tried using it on me. Things haven't gone as he forecast, though. He died, his magic has entered my body and I've died too. But my father hasn't become a ghost like me, he has just disappeared. It is curious that neither his remains nor mine were found. My mother was aware of his intentions so she commissioned the gravestone you've seen and another one for him. She died few months later. Back then, I couldn't change my form as I pleased: I was invisible and not aware of that possibility. Therefore, I couldn't tell her anything."

   "Magic?" he asked, thinking he misunderstood him.

   "Yes, my father and I were magician," he explained.

   "But…  _Magic doesn't exist!_  I can't believe it."

   Arthur rolled his eyes and questioned, "How is it that you believe in ghosts and that they have strange supernatural power like being able to change their shape — choosing if they want to be tangible and visible, or intangible and invisible — or like being able to haunt things, but you don't believe in magic?" He hummed and added, "Mh? How is it?"

   Alfred stayed silent for a few moments, facing the new idea. Yes, it could've seemed strange, but not illogical or contradictory. He got what Arthur was pointing out: he believed in things which couldn't be explained without doubts by science and which seemed more magical or absurd than logical, such as Arthur's ability to change his shape from an intangible and invisible form to a physical body. Where did he put all his atoms? Did he disintegrate his body and recomposed it every time? If so, how could he still maintain a consciousness? Yes, there were too questions without answers, but that didn't mean that magic was certainly the real answer.

   With these things in mind, he spoke, "If so, prove the existence of magic."

   Arthur moved slowly and reached the thorn plant. "Get closer," he uttered, his words a little bit colder than before.

   He muttered some words as Alfred approached. Suddenly, the quasi-withered thorn plant regained strength and life, and a few roses bloomed. He couldn't explain this scientifically. He could've thought that that could be one of ghosts' powers, but — unknowing why — he didn't.

   "Why roses?" Alfred asked.

   "I like them," he uttered, turning away his head not to meet his eyes.

   A thick silence fell; their breaths were the only thing breaking it. After a while, Alfred asked, pointing the flowers, "May I take one of them?"

   "Do whatever you want with them," he said flatly.

   He took the scissors, cut the stem of a rose and handed it to Arthur who looked at him awkwardly, blushed a little and then accepted the gift. As he grabbed the flower, Alfred stated childishly and genuinely, "Roses are like you: they can harm you with their thorns, but, if you take care of them and know how to handle them in the right way, they are wonderful and beautiful flowers." Alfred felt himself blushing.

   His eyes staring at the ground, his right hand loosely closed to held the rose, Arthur reddened.

   Dropped by him, the scissors fell on the ground. Alfred hugged him again. "Thank you." Before Arthur could even think of asking him why he thanked, the American tightened his embrace and whispered softly, "I care for you."

   The ghost widened his eyes in astonishment, a warm feeling running through his body. He slowly closed his eyelids and hugged him back.

_His_  embrace became  _their_  embrace eventually. Alfred noted it, felt it and was truly happy in the depths of his heart because of it. It was the first time Arthur reciprocated.

   " _Ah… If only I'd been a mortal…_ " Wait… What was that? A wish? An intuition passed through Arthur's mind. Since he was a ghost, he'd remain alive, but, one day, Alfred would die. Therefore, he'd suffer for that. He didn't want to. He considered distancing himself from his friend, but that warm feeling running through his body was something he didn't want to part with. It could've seemed selfish, but those were his thoughts, neither lies nor justifications for once.  _Just the truth_.

   They stayed that way for a long time. When the hug ended, Arthur was blushing greatly. He looked at his feet, avoiding Alfred's gaze. He felt a hand patting his head and stroking his hair.

   A couple of day had passed. Arthur was heading for his gravestone when something caught his attention. Actually, someone did. It was Alfred, who was doing something to his roses. He got closer warily and noticed him taking care of the plant. All of a sudden he hid himself behind a mausoleum nearby, constantly peeking at his friend. He noted that Alfred was unsettled.

   He realised — actually, remembered — that he was a ghost and he could change his shape into an intangible, invisible form. That time, becoming an immaterial being was harder than before, almost as if doing it was not natural for him, which was rather strange since he was supposed to be a spiritual being, not a corporeal one.

   In those two days they hadn't met because Arthur was doing a magic show in another city. He worked indeed. Not so often, just enough for his mind to make him feel like a human being. Plus, he could use the money he earned to buy his books; not that he need to work anyway since he was rather wealthy: two centuries, his penny-wise nature and being born in a rich family had helped quite a lot.

   Arthur thought that Alfred was watering that plant because he believed the ghost wasn't around. Therefore, if he appeared out from thin air, his friend could get embarrassed and stop doing that. He didn't want him to stop though.

   If the following day he didn't take care of the plant, it would mean he didn't want him to know.

   Alfred moved the watering can back and approached the gravestone again. Then, he looked around and sighed.

   Although he was immaterial, Arthur was still hidden behind the mausoleum and peeking at him. He realised it after a while and showed up acting as if he hadn't seen anything.

   Even though now Alfred didn't seem ill at ease, or he could hide it well, Arthur didn't bring up the topic.

   With the flow of time, Arthur took the habit of peeking him while he was taking care of that plant.

   He was weary and had headaches lately. It was strange since he was a ghost, but he had just tried to ignore those symptoms. They went away most of the times.

   Walking, the ghost pondered over his relationship with Alfred. They had had their ups and downs, but they did get along well with each other. He liked being in his company and found it  _delightful_ … " _Delightful_?!  _Choo choo, the train of thoughts is there and it has no brakes_ ," he thought wryly.

   Suddenly Alfred's voice came back to his mind.

   " _I care for you_ ," he had said. Arthur couldn't help but blush while remembering  _that_  again.

   As he had just thought, the train of thoughts was there and it had no brakes indeed. He shook his head, the memory slipping away.

   It was late in the morning when he reached the place where they were supposed to meet. In those days, he had decided something that would change his life: he would buy a mobile phone. He had also asked Alfred if he wanted to help him and his friend had accepted happily.

   He spotted the American from afar and glanced at his watch to conceal impatience.

   "Yo, dude!" his friend called waving at him.

   "Hey," he replied and paused. Subsequently, he added, "You are early this time. What's up, are you sick?"

   Alfred laughed out loud.

   Buying a SIM Card and a phone wasn't as hard as Alfred thought. Indeed, Arthur showed him that his knowledge in technology wasn't that bad, which surprised him a lot. When he pointed it out, the Brit simply explained, "During my life as a ghost, I've read quite a lot, not only novels, but also scientific stuff; and I've studied humans' way of life as well so it isn't that strange that I know a thing or two about it. Just wait and see: practice will be my Achilles' heel."

   Since when had he been so open and at ease to speak like that? He couldn't even remember.

   Things were changing recently. Life had been so dull and worthless for so long and now he realised he was wrong. Now he could see the beauty of life — no, not the beauty of life, but the beauty of living with someone he cared for. He wanted to be human and in this desire he piled all the willpower he hid inside.

   He was really weary. The throbbing pain in his head had grown for all the day and now intensified abruptly, making him barely deal with it. A shiver shook his whole body. He felt sick. He didn't understand: just a moment before he was able to endure the pain and now he felt really, really unwell.

   "What's up, dude?" Alfred asked and, noticing his quizzical, confused, unfocused look, added, "You've just shivered."

   "It was nothing, I'm okay," he lied: he didn't want the other, especially Alfred, to worry.

   They were sitting on two chairs in a bar of the shopping centre. " _Maybe some fresh air can help_ ," he thought. Therefore, he proposed, "What about going to the park nearby?"

   Alfred agreed.

   It shouldn't be arduous. He only had to stand up and leave the bar. Nothing he couldn't handle, normally.

   He stood up. Okay, the first thing was done. It was left to walk towards the door and reach it, possibly. He moved a step, but his legs were wobbling.

   Thankfully Alfred was there and helped him not to fall. He looked in Arthur's eyes and asked again, "What's wrong?"

   "Nothing," he lied stubbornly.

   "Arthur…"

   Arthur snorted, aware that his friend had discovered he was lying. "I feel sick," he murmured in embarrassment.

   Alfred chuckle a little and, after noticing Arthur's hurt, slightly angry glance, he teased him, "You sure are a weirdo. A ghost who can fall ill. Never heard about it."

   The above-mentioned ghost was about to rebut that, of course, that  _bloody_  Alfred couldn't know about sick ghosts since he knew only a ghost, when a hand was placed on his forehead. Alfred's smile faded away and left only a worried expression.

   Arthur bowed his head to avoid  _that_  gaze.

   "When have you started feeling unwell?" he asked.

   From Arthur's face, he could tell that it had begun quite a long time before he noticed. He sighed and, helping his friend to sustain his weight, he started moving towards the door.

   After a while, Arthur asked, "Where are we going?"

   "Home."

   That was all they said. Arthur had begun wheezing.

   They reached Alfred's flat eventually.

   The American loosened his grip on him, but this made him almost fall to the floor. "Shit!" he muttered under his breath. "Hold on!" he exclaimed; but Arthur's hands were trembling.

   Alfred squatted and lifted him up. Then, he carried him on his room to bed him. He managed to find a bowl full of water and a handkerchief. He immersed, squeezed and placed the hanky on his friend's forehead.

   Soon, Arthur fell asleep.

   Alfred was worried and scared. He had never thought that his friend could feel unwell. He was a ghost,  _damn it_! Which kind of ghost got sick? He was aware he didn't know that much about ghosts, but…  _Arthur sick_? He couldn't think about it. Arthur was…  _Arthur_. He used to stroll with an unbuttoned, light coat in winter…  _in winter,_   _damn it_! How could he shiver? How could his forehead be burning like that? He wasn't supposed to get ill!

   Alfred didn't know how to handle the situation. Arthur was a ghost but had also a corporeal body. Did he need to eat or replenish fluids? Should his temperature cool down, since he didn't seem to be burning at all when Alfred hugged him? Should he treat him like a simple, alive human being?

   He didn't want to hurt him in any way.

   He made his decision eventually. For him, Arthur was a human.

   Alfred managed to keep wet his friend's lips, make him drink some water little by little and cool his body down.

   The Brit slept almost three days. He stirred and sweated as though he was having nightmares. Sometimes he murmured a few words which generally were a plea not to do like his father did.

   Alfred rarely left his side.

   Arthur woke up eventually. The first thing he said was, "I'm hungry."

   The American chuckled in relief and asked him, "Since when do ghosts eat food?"

   Perhaps he didn't detect the teasing tone, as he veered off, asking, "Have I been corporeal when I was sick?"

   Alfred nodded. Arthur started to explain his thoughts, "As I thought… Do you remember when I told you about my father's spell? I bet you do. I told you that it seemed it didn't work well, but recently I've noted that something is changing. When I was tired and I almost ran out of energy, I generally became intangible, but now I have no problem maintaining it. Plus, I've started finding it a little bit harder switching from a corporeal to an intangible form when it should be the opposite. It seems I'm becoming a mortal again." After a while, he added unconsciously, "Maybe I wanted to be human inwardly."

   Before his friend could ask why, Arthur shook his head and stated an "I'm hungry" which looked more a "shut up and feed me" than an objective statement.

   Alfred said with a giggle, "Okay, okay: I got it, dude. I'll be back in no time." Before leaving, he added, bumbling a little, "If you want to take a shower… I mean, what you usually do, feel free to do it."

   "I'd go with the shower," he replied, smiling slightly.

   Back in Alfred's room, Arthur noted that his friend had left him some clothes and a hair dryer. He smiled again. He felt more relaxed now.

   While he was blow-drying his hair, Alfred came back to tell him the food was almost ready.

   Arthur had a gut feeling that something was changing. Or rather, not only was something changing but also had been changing for so long. He didn't refer to his  _metamorphosis_  but to their relationship.

   Being with Alfred smelled like home.

   After eating, they sat down on the couch.

   "Why?" Alfred asked. He had dropped the matter before, but now he wanted to comprehend.

   "Why why?" he replied, unsure whether he wanted to hear the answer.

   "Why do you want to be human again?" he couldn't help but be so damned curious. All things considered, that man in front of him was the person he loved most.

   The silence fell between them. Arthur started to look at his feet — his now interesting feet. He felt uneasy. Alfred stood up and squatted in front of him. Smiling slightly, he gazed at him for quite a while. He sighed eventually.

   Hearing the noise, the Brit raised his head and his eyes met the American's.

   Alfred seemed relaxed; nevertheless, his voice revealed his embarrassment as soon as he spoke, "There's something I'd like to tell you."

   He paused and approached slowly, a slight blush reddening his face. He kissed him on his lips eventually. The brief contact ended in the twinkling of an eye. It drained all his courage though.

   Arthur blinked, and his face reddened strongly. He opened his mouth and closed it without uttering a word. Finally, he bumbled, "T-this… You haven't said anything."

   That was a lie and he knew. Although the kiss had been clumsy and gone in no time, it did speak to him. Now he understood better his own feelings and Alfred's.

   He had been too detached, too  _rough_. Indeed, the American's smile died little by little, replaced only by a gloomy grimace.

   The Brit suffered from that sight. He had been so stupid,  _bloody_  stupid. He didn't want to cast a gloom over him… Why did he have to act like that? Really, how could he be so surly?  _Surly_ , as Alfred once said.  _Alfred_. When did he meet it in the first place? It had been a year or so before, but it seemed to have happened in the days of yore. Indeed.

   For what might be the first time in his life, Arthur stopped thinking about the consequences. There were no more "how much will it hurt?", nor were "how likely is it that I will end up being hurt?", but only Alfred, Arthur and their feelings.

   Tender, gentle words left the Brit's lips, condensing as they brushed against the American's face, "Now it's my turn to tell you something, Alfred."

   Arthur got closer to him barely enough to make their breaths melt, his eyes never leaving Alfred's. He kissed him eventually. As soon as their mouths disunited, a hand grabbed his shirt and pulled him towards the American. Their lips met tenderly and disjoined once more.

   Blushing strongly, the Brit averted his eyes. Alfred gaped at him. The American raised a hand eventually and gently stroked his hair, grinning widely.

   A forefinger reached the elder's chin and lifted it up. Their gazes meeting, Arthur remembered the very first expression he saw on him. The Brit smiled shyly, the redness never leaving his face. He felt happy.

   Their hands intertwined eventually.

   A month or so had passed.

   Hands running on a rose stem, Alfred, squatting, examined closely the flower. The plant was growing well indeed.

   "You know, Alfred? A few weeks ago I saw you watering the roses," Arthur spoke. That morning the American had asked him for a date so now they were there, in  _their_  cemetery.

   His interlocutor chuckled a little and then said peacefully, "I've guessed you did. At the very beginning, when I thought of taking care of these roses, I was really embarrassed. Still, I decided to do it anyway."

   His words were accompanied by a seemingly nonchalant shrug. He took his scissors and cut the stem of a bloomed rose.

   "Why?"

   The American offered him the flower and Arthur took it carefully.

   "Roses sure are wonderful, beautiful plants. Plus, you like them. And…" Alfred left the sentence unfinished and got closer to him. He caressed the Brit's face, fingers gently running on that skin. Breaths melting, he whispered in his left ear, "I love you."

   The American kissed him and embraced him.

   Chin on the hollow of Alfred's shoulder, Arthur reddened strongly. As soon as a sweet " _Git_ " left his lips, he hugged him back. "I love you too," he mumbled.

   " _May things never ever change_ "; the name of the man who thought it was shrouded in mystery.

   The dead are weirdos indeed. Disturbing them sometimes may bring an unkind death — Alfred was happy he did though.

_The End._


End file.
